One hundred ninety one minutes
by MissDillyDilly
Summary: Claire has a secret, and is waiting for the perfect time to tell Mac her news...


**One hundred ninety one minutes**

**Summary**: Claire has a secret, and is waiting for the perfect time to tell Mac her news...

**Disclaimers**: I have made no money from writing this story. I do not own anything connected with any of the CSI franchises, which I assume belong to CBS and its cohorts. I would quite like to own Gary Sinise, however… just for a day?

**A/N**: Thanks to JillSwinburne, whose persistent interest in Claire sparked off this little bunny.

* * *

Tuesday morning, 5.35 am.

As the alarm shrilled rudely for the third time, Claire Conrad Taylor gave up the struggle to stay asleep and shrugged off the covers, grabbing at them just in time to prevent her still-snoring husband from being exposed to the morning air. Not that she need have bothered: the Taylors slept with their curtains open, and looking up she could see the clear, navy swathe of pre-dawn, promising a glorious September day.

She watched as the sky lightened to royal and then azure blue before bursting into the flaming, burnished gold of a full New York sunrise. Twisting to look at the man beside her, she smiled as the first shafts of sunlight laid themselves across his damp, dark hair, turning it to copper and bronze. Mac was always a messy sleeper, and last night had been no exception.

It was still a marvel to her how she, shy, awkward little Claire Ella Conrad, could have found herself with the most wonderful man in the world. And that he still loved her after – what – more than ten years together. Too many of her friends' marriages had foundered on the shoals of money, stress and selfishness for her ever not to value what she had.

She considered herself – though Mac would always laugh _You're biased_ when she said so – the luckiest woman in New York.

But enough wool-gathering: she had a meeting at 9 o'clock, a presentation by her boss which would eat up most of the morning, and although she didn't have to, she wanted to be in the office by 7.30 to get ahead of herself. Padding to the bathroom, she silently closed the door to keep the noise in, and switched on the shower. She hated washing away the scent of the night, but she couldn't walk into a boardroom smelling of sex. She shivered with remembrance, and dried herself quickly, trying to focus on – among other things – her recent promotion. Which was difficult, because work, and its politics and intricacies, weren't the only subjects on Claire's mind today.

As of this morning, she was officially twelve weeks pregnant.

Reaching into the dirty-linen box, she fished out the small plastic and cardboard wand she'd hidden there the previous evening, and stared again at the brightly-coloured line that spelled 'baby'. Her heart raced: it was still there – she hadn't imagined it in some desperate wish-fulfilling dream. If she concentrated hard, she thought she could feel feeble, fish-like flutterings – though at twelve weeks, her common sense told her, her child was no bigger than Mac's thumb, and as light as a cube of sugar. She looked at herself in the mirror: she wasn't even beginning to show yet. Smoothing her hands down her still-slender body, she enjoyed the sensation of sleekness: she knew it wouldn't last, so she was going to make the most of it while it did.

She and Mac had been trying for a baby for five years now, and had hit the jackpot twice before. At least that was what Mac had called it the first time, before the pain and the tears and the bewilderment had left them parents to a four-week-old stain on a thick white towel, an unformed scarlet splash with all the potential to become a human being, and none of the ability. They'd stared at it for God knew how long, and it was weeks before she finally disposed of it, casting their firstborn into the outer darkness, away from a world it would never know.

The second time, they had been more circumspect, not allowing themselves to become emotionally involved, not reckoning dates or choosing names or planning schools. They had steeled themselves against another loss, and were well-prepared to weather the storm – until, at nine weeks, it came. Clinging to each other and the upturned hull of their lives, they had howled at the tempest that buffeted their hopes and dreams and yet again flung them far into the dark until they were cast up, exhausted, on a barren, sterile island surrounded by an ocean of horror and tears, with nothing but a bloody mass of tissue as a testament to their future.

That time, it had taken them several days to talk about what had happened. Squatting grossly in the corner of every conversation was the knowledge that Claire, at least, could provide what was necessary to bring a child to term. Before she'd known Mac, she'd given birth to a lively, healthy son: if anything was wrong, it wasn't her fault.

At least that was what Mac had felt. He blamed himself, keenly and bitterly, for putting her through such physical and emotional trauma, and was ready to call it quits then and there. "We'll be a happy, child-free couple," he had said. "I don't want you to go through any more." But she had seen the veil of devastation behind his eyes, and knew how much it meant to him; gently, slowly, she had persuaded him that the game was worth the candle, and he had agreed to give it one last go.

The difference was, this time she hadn't told him. They'd told no-one the second time, but the first time they'd – prematurely, as it turned out – shared the news with Claire's parents, and Claire had been acutely aware of the fact that she had been fussed over, cosseted and tended to like a small bird, while Mac had been patted on the shoulder and greeted with a slightly awkward silence. She had felt for him in impotent torment, and she wasn't going to put him through that again. His physical pain might not be as great as hers, but his mental pain most certainly was. If this little life vanished too, she would try and handle it alone.

Which was why twelve weeks – the 'magic' twelve weeks beyond which most foetuses survived – was such a big deal.

In some ways, she was surprised he hadn't guessed, though she'd worn all her pregnancies lightly. In others, she understood: maybe he had wilfully closed his eyes and mind to the very notion of parenthood, just to safeguard his poor, fragile heart. But – and she grinned like a child at the prospect – now she could tell him that his baby was safe, and they could look forward to a three-fold life together. She felt elated beyond reason, light-headed with the future.

Tonight – she would tell him tonight, when they had plenty of time to savour the prospect as a family. She would book a table at Gobo – he'd think it was to celebrate her promotion – and then she'd tell him that, at last, he was going to be a dad.

* * *

"Claire? You going to be much longer? I need to pee!" She started out of her reverie, dropping the stick in her confusion. "Claire?" Altogether a different tone in his voice now. "Claire? Are you all right?"

"Yes – yes – sorry. Mac. I dozed off."

"Can I come in?"

She thrust the stick deep into a dirty towel already in the box. "Yeah, sure." She found she was shaking – such a momentous day, and yet he knew nothing…

He opened the door with a rush and made straight for the toilet: despite the seriousness of her thoughts, she laughed to see the expression of calm that gradually suffused his desperate features. A civilised human being again, he turned to her and ran his eyes over her clean, naked body. "Mmm – looks good. Any leftovers?"

"No way, cheeky! You had enough last night."

"I will never – " he crossed the bathroom and put his arms around her " – ever get enough of you, not if we live to a hundred. You're my beautiful drug, you know? The more I have, the more I want. Here – let's see that hair…" Stepping back, he took handfuls of her thick, water-heavy hair and piled it on top of her head. "I _love_ the hair."

"Mac – get off. I want to get in early today – catch up before the presentation. Promotion carries responsibilities!"

"Anyone who doesn't see my wife's potential is a fool," he growled. "Presentation or no presentation. Why can't you catch up tomorrow?"

"Jim will take at least two hours to get his message across." Jim McAllister was her boss, and she didn't rate him, or his work, too highly. "That's two hours lost – and I still have to close some deals today."

"But you could phone in sick – Jim'll have notes – and spend the day with me." He nuzzled her neck. "I think I might have a cough – there, d'you hear that?" He wheezed unconvincingly.

"You're incorrigible! I can't just play truant! I've only just been given a big chair – how is that going to look? And don't you have work to do?"

"Mmm. Stella can manage."

For a moment – for more than a moment – Claire was tempted. Jim's presentation would be boring in the extreme, and the information it contained would be easily obtainable elsewhere. If she stayed home with Mac, she could tell him right now, and they could spend the whole day together, just the three of them, in lazy joy. Then her conscience reasserted itself, and she gently shook herself free. "No, Mac – it's not honest. Not a good way to start my new life. So – you going to stand there all day like a spare part, or let me get on with dressing?"

He shrugged in defeat, and then smiled – an open, carefree smile that those who knew him in later years rarely saw – and began to brush his teeth. His eyes lighted on the shelf, and he froze. "Claire!"

"What?"

"How many times – why do you do this? Mess up the shelf like this?" He clattered the toothpaste and toothbrushes, deodorants, gels and soaps around until they stood in neat, military rows: his on one side, hers on the other, theirs in the middle.

Claire rolled her eyes. "Mac – it's a shelf. It's – stuff. It doesn't matter."

"It does to me."

She sighed: there were few things in life that really annoyed her easy-going husband, but this was one of them. She placed a hand on his back. "I'm sorry – OK? I won't do it again."

"You always say that – and you always do."

"OK. I promise, on my honour, that I will never, ever, mess up the bathroom shelf again as long as I live. Cross my heart and hope to die. How's that?"

He wiped his mouth clean. "Acceptable." Then he grinned. "I'll hold you to it."

She pulled a face. "I know. Oh, come here." Grabbing his hands, she pulled him to her, and kissed him with all the passion of a woman in love kissing the father of her unborn child. Suddenly, she felt vulnerable: this man was so precious, the child within her was so precious – how would she manage if she lost him? She held him tight, as if she'd never let him go.

"Hey!" he said softly. "What's up?"

She shook her head. "Nothing – just nervous, I guess. First week as a senior."

He stroked her face, and she saw the love leap out of his eyes. "You'll be fine. I have complete faith in you. I'll get some coffee."

"Decaf!" she called after him.

"Decaf is gut-rot. Don't know why you drink it."

She smiled: tonight, he'd understand.

* * *

Tuesday morning, 6.14 am

"You look fantastic!" Mac, now dressed in a loose bathrobe, handed her a large mug of coffee and raised his eyebrows. Claire had taken great care with her clothes: a blue-grey pencil skirt suit, an electric blue shirt, pearl accessories and – her one concession to pregnancy – low, elegant heels. Her purse picked up on the colour of the pearls, and she had swept her hair back in a loose clasp that kept it tidy but didn't compromise its softness. She could just feel the tightness of the waistband.

"Why thank you, kind sir!" She pirouetted for him and felt her back twinge – _uh oh_, she thought, _not long till I begin to waddle_. The anticipation was intoxicating.

"Time for a proper breakfast?" he queried. "Or just juice and toast?"

She sat at the breakfast bar – built with Mac's own hands, and modelled on her parents' bar back in Chicago when she got homesick one summer. "Juice and toast would be wonderful – with some of that orange jelly?"

He shook his head in mock irritation. "That orange jelly is real English marmalade. Thick and bitter and very long-lasting."

"You mean like your boss – whatshisname?" she murmured innocently.

He smirked. "Yeah – something like that. How in hell do you do business with that razor tongue of yours?"

"It's my sweet, confiding nature. Oops – there it goes again!"

"Damn!" Mac was just in time to catch the toast, which had flung itself out of the toaster in a gesture akin to suicide. "Gotta get that fixed."

"Or get a new one."

They sat together in their kitchen, an ordinary couple at the start of another ordinary day. Mac drank coffee – real chest-hair coffee, as he called it – and Claire chewed on her toast and English marmalade; their silence was an old one, comfortable and lived in like a favourite cardigan. Watching him, Claire felt ridiculously happy: her apartment, her husband, her child – a promotion in the bag and a beautiful New York day – what more could she want out of life? Contentment filled her like one of Mac's mom's old-fashioned Sunday roasts.

She sighed, wishing she could have accepted Mac's suggestion. Mac was head of his department – he could easily wangle a day off. And then they could have walked in Central Park, maybe gone out to St Luke's in The Village – favourite places where they sometimes sat, doing nothing but breathing each other's air in the peace and the quiet, for hours. She should have told him at the weekend – how superstitious was it to wait till exactly the seventh day of the twelfth week?

For the same reason, she thought, that she always touched an invisible mezuzah on the doorframe whenever she entered the apartment: she wanted to feel something was protecting her. Mac sometimes lit candles in church: she pretended she was Jewish. God, she thought, what chance did their kid have?

"Penny?"

"Mmm?"

"Penny for your thoughts. You were smiling."

"Oh – just thinking about coming home to you, tonight, and telling you all the news."

"News?"

"About my promotion."

"Well you already have, so what's new about it?"

She batted him on the shoulder. "It's not official till this morning, you know. I've still got to prove I'm fit for the privilege of being one of the prime-site closers. So when I tell you this evening – again – you'll pretend you know nothing about it, if you don't mind."

"Ma'am!" He gave a mock salute. "Claire – " God, she loved the way he said her name! " – I don't want to chase you out or anything, but it's a quarter to."

"What? Oh shit. I'm out of here. Mac, I love you more than anything in the world, I'll call you today and I'll see you tonight, OK?"

"OK."

She pecked him on the cheek, then thought better of it and did the job properly. Even as she sank into his kiss for one brief, final time that morning, she was aware of how he contrived to hold her without creasing her clothes. She wanted to burst with happiness.

Her last glimpse of him was turning back towards the kitchen to clear the breakfast things, a small, smug smile on his face. That smile, she knew, wasn't for her, but for him alone: a genuine, private smile born of deep inner peace and contentment. And as she took the elevator down she thought, with perhaps more surprise than was warranted, _I make him happy_.

* * *

Tuesday morning, 7.36 am.

Claire loved the express elevator. She'd always been the first one on the roller coaster, the highest one on the swing, and the North Tower elevator gave her some of that childish thrill each and every morning. Her only regret was that it didn't go the full 110 floors in one go – what a trip that would have been! She wondered if moving at such high speeds was dangerous for the baby, then chided herself for being a fool.

This kid was a survivor.

Stepping out of the slow-moving local elevator to complete her journey, she dumped her bags on her desk and did what she always did when she arrived up here: crossed to the window and gazed out over Lower Manhattan. From this height – almost at the top of the building – it looked clean, vulnerable, and beautiful in the early morning sun as the light warmed the red brick structures and softened the grey concrete ones. It was a sight so lovely that it sometimes moved her to tears.

"Hey, Claire!" She turned.

"Sophie – how are you doing?"

Her assistant shrugged. "Oh, you know – Doug came in at three this morning, the dog cut his paw on a thorn – same old same old. But – look at you! Understated sexy, I think Ms Vogue would say."

Claire almost repeated her previous pirouette, then remembered herself. Instead, she grinned. "Make a good impression for the first few weeks – then start to dress down again." She'd have to soon – her review of so-called designer maternity wear had convinced her that a sloppy top and baggy jeans might well be her best bet. It was a look she could cultivate, she thought… "Who's in?"

"Jen, Sam, Wills – not Jim, not Paul – though Paul better make it because he's got that Mr Milton at nine. I'm just finishing up some information packs for him. But why are you here? Weren't you and the man planning an early night?"

Claire grinned. "Oh yes… But there's nothing to bring you down to earth like the prospect of a presentation with Jim – and the time you'll have to make up."

Sophie pulled a face. "Oh yeah… You want coffee?"

"Mmm – decaf, please." She crossed to her workspace and gratefully sat down. Stubborn as she was, she could feel her future tiredness lurking in the wings, ready for its subtle, pervasive entrance. She picked up the photograph of Mac that dominated the right-hand side of her desk: a double portrait showing a formal, uniformed Marine gazing levelly at the camera, and a laughing, drenched civilian on holiday and – as Claire well knew – about to wrestle the unfortunate camerawoman to the ground for soaking him with hose-water.

"Put him down!" Sophie whispered. "You'll wear him out!" Claire sighed. "Hey – you OK?"

"Yeah. I just worry about him – it's a bad ol' world out there, and he's right in the middle of it. He's lost two men this year already. I just – what if his luck runs out?" What if one day her child woke up without a father?

Sophie gave her friend a hug. "It won't. Your Mac – he's special. A charmed life."

"Thanks, Soph. Well – better go for it, I suppose." With a final, longing glance at the photographs, she opened the laptop and began her last day as a secret parent.

* * *

Tuesday morning, 8.43 am.

"Coming?" Jim loomed suddenly over Claire's desk, large both in body and in the files he clutched.

_Damn!_ she thought – she'd hoped for ten more minutes. Not that she wasn't ready: she'd just wanted time to collect her final thoughts before suffering a morning of Jim's flat-featured drawl. "Sure," she replied, gathering her papers as slowly as she could and reluctantly following him.

They were interrupted by Jen, the fearsomely-efficient receptionist the agency had recently provided. "Mr McAllister! Mr Milton's downstairs – shall I tell him to come up, or do you want to go down?"

"Where's Paul?"

"Texted – burst tyre. He'll be in as soon as."

"Bugger. Can't come up on his own – get lost in the lifts."

"I'll go," Claire said, placing her papers on Jen's desk a little too eagerly. Anything to postpone the inevitable, even for five minutes. And she'd get to ride the elevators again.

"No – we're all set here. Sophie!" Sophie trotted around the corner. "Paul's nine's downstairs – will you go fetch? Sam can entertain till Paul gets here."

"Sure." She headed towards the local elevator, while Claire looked on in envy.

She shook her head: it felt thick and woolly. Perhaps it was the stress of keeping her secret so close; perhaps she was getting too old for gallivanting around with a twelve-week baby on board; but she suddenly felt bone-weary. She couldn't get Mac out of her mind, his gentle face, his open, ready grin: placing her hand over her stomach, she ached to be with him, and wished she'd shared her news this morning. He could have had another whole day of looking forward to being a father.

She pulled out her phone, ignoring Jim's surprised frown. She needed to hear Mac's voice. _Just calling Mac_, she mouthed.

* * *

Tuesday, 8.46 am.

Claire hit 'dial' and wondered what excuse she'd give for calling. As his number came up, she felt a twist in her stomach, a glow of pleasure at the thought of her beautiful husband that no-one else could give her. She was, at that moment, supremely happy.

Then, without warning, the whole world flew apart.

_The End_


End file.
